


omelette du frottage

by yonderdarling



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Neck Kissing, Prompt Fill, Public Hand Jobs, Rough Kissing, Semi-Public Sex, dom!doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23128792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: Does it really matter how they’ve ended up here, again?  The Doctor, the Master, a wall. It's all here.
Relationships: Doctor/Master, Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 191





	omelette du frottage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [resting-meme-face](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=resting-meme-face).



> A fic request from resting-meme-face on tumblr, who asked for frottage and a slightly dominant Thirteen. I'm currently (slowly) taking fic requests from people there :)

Does it really matter how they’ve ended up here, again? Their bodies are different but their minds and their souls and the atoms of their being are the same, and they know each other, they always know each other. The Master presses her up against the wall of the prison block, and pulls her coat open to rest his hands on her waist, clutching at the fabric and then the flesh there.  
  
"Where are your humans?" he whispers against her neck.   
  
"Wouldn't you like to know?" she murmurs, and bites his lower lip. "Stop asking."  
  
"I'm assuming you've not got this lot microchipped."  
  
How can "microchipped" sound sexy coming out of his stupid, attractive mouth? The Doctor decides to put that aside. She's pretty sure this body is a full-on lesbian, yet here she is, weak at the knees as the Master (who, judging by his preferred pronouns and what he’s pressing into her hip through his trousers, is very male this time around) tugs down the collar of her top, kisses the dip between her clavicles. She's going to mull over that later.  
  
Kissing - keeps happening. Their mouths, necks; she finds herself sinking her teeth into his ear (that's still kissing, for them) as he grabs a handful of her hair, pulls. She gasps, and he chuckles, chest shifting against her chest.  
  
"Get on your knees," he murmurs, pressing his cock against her hip, hard even through his stupid checked pants and her own trousers. "Come on now."  
  
Now, that's changed. When he was Missy and she was...Missy's Doctor (in times like this she...well, he _was_ ), she'd be putty in Missy's hands the second she gave an order like that. Now,  
  
"Not this time, mate," the Doctor murmurs, and the Master growls, but smiles. "Didn't even say please."  
  
She twists her hands in his waistcoat and brings him properly flush against her, and he knows (they know each other so well, like this) and grabs her arse, squeezes.  
  
"That's an improvement from last time," he says, before moving one hand up, clumsily one-handed pulling her shirt out from where it's tucked into her culottes. "These are an improvement too," he says, cupping her breasts. He flicks a thumb over her hardening nipple. "You're spectacular. Look at you."  
  
She looks at him, from a distance of inches, and he is too, his lips swollen and slick, his pupils dilated; his wonderful silky hair is a disaster. The stone wall he's got her pressed against is hard, cold and rough, but she barely feels it as he stares her down. She cups his face, feeling the heat of his skin against her hands.  
  
"Same goes," the Master says, pressing his cock against her thigh again. "Are you going to suck my cock, Doctor?"  
  
His hand is still hot on her arse. The Doctor smirks, shakes her head. "Again, not with that attitude."  
  
"I'm not going to ask nicely."  
  
"Then I'm not going to do it at all," she says. "Master."  
  
Without meaning to, the Master lets out a breath. He rubs up against her, pulling her flush against him with one hand on her arse, his other hand squeezing at the bare skin of her waist. "Let me touch you then," he whispers. "Please, Doctor - "  
  
Even as he whispers, there's a noise just outside their small enclave. Both of them freeze, and turn to see a prison guard striding past their hiding place. He stops, his back to them, and begins to roll a cigarette. The Master runs his thumb along the bottom of the Doctor's ribcage, presses his lips to her neck, silent. The Doctor trails her hands down his chest, hooks her thumb into the bottom buttonhole of his waistcoat.  
  
The guard is still there. He lights his cigarette. The Master's lips are still on her neck.  
  
Well.  
  
Her hand drifts further down, pressing against the tented fabric in his pants (which, by the way, are still stupid). The Master breathes out against her skin as she begins to rub his cock through his trousers, the fabric soft against her fingers. His hips shift; she flattens her palm and rubs along his cock’s length, feeling his chest move as he tries to keep quiet. The Master tips his head, kisses the point where her jaw and neck meet; he leaves his lips there. _Contact_.   
  
_I can make him leave,_ he presses into her mind. _Easy-quick._  
  
 _No killing._  
  
 _Not like that._  
  
There’s a pause, and a sense in her mind like warm, dark velvet and crystallised ginger, and the Master begins to push his hips towards her, rubbing himself against her hand. Smoke from the guard’s cigarette drifts towards them, tickling the Doctor’s nose. She smirks as the Master shudders against her, pulling her against his cock using his hand on her arse. His lips are still below her ear, and their minds still linked, but it’s still a shock to hear his voice in her brain.  
  
 _I want to fuck you,_ he manages to send across, and it feels like the cold shock of sea-spray at the end of summer. _God, I just want to pull your clothes off and ruin you, right here -_  
  
She squeezes his dick, which cuts him off. “Weak,” she replies, and this she says aloud, right into his mouth.   
  
The Master makes a small noise in reply, still desperately rubbing against her.  
  
In the corner of her eye the guard shifts, and she watches him flick his cigarette away and continue with his rounds. The Master makes another small noise, and she unzips his fly, reaches in -   
  
“Do you ever bother wearing underwear?” she asks, and he laughs into her hair. “God, you’re bad.”  
  
There’s already pre-come beading on the tip of his cock; she feels it, silky and warm against the hot skin of his cock. She takes it in her hand, strokes him roughly, running her thumb over the head.  
  
“And you’re - very good,” the Master says, thrusting into her hand, his breathing laboured. He kisses her again. “You’re always - oh, fuck - “  
  
“Yes, yes that.”  
  
His hand slides back up her top, and he’s squeezing at her breasts, which is still a new sensation for her, but it’s good, it’s very good, it’s so good.  
  
“I want to ruin you,” the Master says, and then, “Fuck.” He bucks into her hand, presses himself against her. “Fucking hell.”  
  
The Doctor grins up at him, presses their foreheads together. “You’ve barely even had a chance to look in my trousers this time, let alone ruin me.”  
  
“Soon,” says the Master, panting.  
  
He groans, and it vibrates through the Doctor’s chest. His hand stills on her breast; his free hand weaves into her hair, twists the strands around his fingers. The Doctor tightens her grip on his hot, hard cock, and kisses him roughly as the Master moans into her mouth.  
  
“Are you going to come?” she asks, and hears a desperate _yes_ in the corner of her mind. “I want you to look at me when you come.”  
  
 _No_.  
  
 _Oh yes, you will._  
  
As that thought goes across to him, she opens her eyes, and the Master is looking at her, his eyes black, his cheeks flushed, and she smiles again, and he bucks into her hand a final time and she feels him coming into her hand, along her wrist, hot and thick and -  
  
“Fuck,” says the Master, leaning against her, crowding her into the wall. “Fuck. Fuck, Doctor.” He tilts his head, kisses her on the neck, his lips hot, slick. “Wow.”  
  
She laughs, and the Master kisses her neck again, dropping his mouth to her pulse point. She’s wet, from the noises he was making, from the feeling of his cock in her hand. Not breaking eye contact (and this was a Missy-favourite move), the Doctor lifts her hand to her mouth and licks the Master’s come off her fingers. He watches, swallows dryly. As she moves onto her palm, the Master makes a low noise, grabs her hips, kisses her hard on the mouth. He kisses her again and again, biting at her lips, his hand soft on her face.  
  
“Your turn,” he says, pulling back, squeezing her arse.  
  
“Oh, no no,” she says, even as her body cries out for her to let him. “My TARDIS is two minutes away. If you’re going to ruin me, you’re going to ruin me properly.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Comments and feedback are always appreciated.


End file.
